


Willing

by Catchclaw



Series: Ready and Willing [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk find Spock brooding in the dark and refuses to be ignored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Willing

The door is open.

The realization hits you like a punch in the gut, and you turn just in time to see the doors slide closed. The light from the corridor catches you in the eye, and you reel, unseeing in the dark.

You freeze. Perhaps it was a malfunction, you tell yourself: an oversensitive sensor, or a clumsy crewman. Your mind rapidly catalogs the possibilities, as you peer anxiously into the darkness, and you find yourself wishing for the chill of the haint at your back.

"Spock?" he calls softly.

No, you think wildly, no. Not him. But now you can sense his presence: you know he is here, prowling confidently through the dark. He can see you, you are certain; you can feel his gaze on you, feel your face flush as his eyes sear your skin.

"Spock," he says in your ear, with a kind of certainty that makes you shudder. "I knew you were here." He is behind you, suddenly, and you are acutely, painfully, aware of him, drowning in his proximity: his smell, his voice, his fingers on the back of your neck, gliding over your skin.

"Captain," you manage, in a voice that sounds remarkably like your own.

"Spock," he says again, his lips brushing your neck, following his fingers as they move lazily over your skin. His breath is cool and heavy with promise. Your awareness narrows, sharpens, to that part of you he is remaking with his touch: your neck, your shoulders, your back. You grit your teeth: you know that you must fight this, don't you?, must control your body with your mind--but, oh, you do not want to fight anymore. You want to give yourself over to him, to lean back into his hands and let him make of you what he will. And so you do.

You press back against him, letting his fingers claim more of you. While one hand runs freely over your back, the other takes you from the front, sliding under your tunic, pulling your body back to meet his. He moans as he touches your stomach, shifting his hips against you. Now you don't care if it is a haint, for you can feel his cock straining to reach you, pressing for you, begging for you. Both his hands are under your tunic now, gripping your sides urgently. He groans against your back as he shoves his hips forward, pumping, straining. You make a sound that you don't recognize--and you spin around and bury your tongue in his mouth.

You grab his hips, his hair, and take from that beautiful mouth everything you've always wanted. He is eager, so cool and yielding and wet. You squeeze his hips and shove your cock against his, letting him feel you, all of you, and he moans again, his head falling back and his legs trembling. You grab him, denying him any escape from you, and he kisses you, pushing his body up into your arms. Your body sings for him, and you let him hear what he is doing to you. Limbs tangled, you turn him and push his body into the computer console, suddenly desperate to feel all of him at once. In the weird glow of the terminal, you see his face twisted with desire, his eyes burning. He is beautiful: he is yours.

In one long movement, he pulls off his shirt and reaches for yours, tugging it roughly over your head. You yank your head free and shove him back with one hand, the other reaching for his waistband. Before he can move, you have his fly open and his cock in your hand. He growls, shoving himself into your fist, and bites your neck. You squeeze him gently, running your thumb over the tip. He cries out against your throat, cursing, and shoves his hips forward, gasping, grabbing for you. Without releasing him, you lower yourself to the deck and drag your tongue across his slit, teasing him, testing yourself. This is a dream, you tell yourself, and because it is a dream, you can act, you will act, as the safety of real life, of isolation, of silence, lies waiting for you in the dark.

You pull him into your mouth and he groans, pleasure and relief combined. You catch flashes of his face as you move; his head is laid back so he can watch you. Your eyes meet, and suddenly he is frantic for you, pumping eagerly into your mouth, filling your ears with his pleasure. Even in this dreamworld, you tell yourself, you are in control, even as you stroke the soft skin inside his thighs, your tongue dragging up his shaft. He comes so suddenly that you almost don't realize it: he pours himself into your throat and screams what sounds like your name, over and over again, until he shudders and you feel his body relax.

He looks at you then, his eyes soft, his face relaxed, and he smiles slowly, knowingly. You stand up unsteadily, feeling the deck reel beneath you, and you reach for him, feeling his lips curve under yours. You feel his fingers trace your waist, then drop down to the hard outline of your cock."Ready?" he asks, his voice heavy with amusement. You can't answer him, can you?--not with words.

Instead, you lean back and open your trousers, tugging yourself free. You have never been this hard--you know this--never seen your cock like this: vivid, straining, full. You watch his hands cup you, then stroke you, then pump you, and because it is a dream, you do nothing but lean into his touch, running your fingers over his face. He tips his head up and kisses you, fingers still closed over your cock. Now it is your turn to moan, to buck your hips into his hands.

He groans against your mouth and shoves you back, sliding off the console and leaning against it, letting you feel his cock rising to meet yours. You stand like that for a moment, a year, feeling his tongue plunder you as you fuck his fist. You know what it is you want from him, want to do to him, but even now, as you stand tangled with him, some part of you says no, refuses to consider the further pleasures this man's body can give you. Just thinking about it makes you even harder, drives you to the brink, and you cry out, incoherent, needy, out of control at last.

He drops to the floor before you can stop him and pulls you into his throat. You moan and lean back, watching his head over you, feeling his teeth catch your tip and his tongue drag up and down your shaft. He looks up at you, his eyes hooded and black in the dark. In that moment, you fear that he can see your very soul.

Perhaps he can, for he releases your cock and stands abruptly, his heavy cock banging against yours. You both growl, and he turns around, pressing his palms into the console.

"Now," he says, his voice ragged and wanton. "Fuck me now."

You are moving even as he speaks, wrapping your hot hands around his hips and digging your fingers into his flesh. You can hear him panting as you press the tip of your cock against him. He moans again, a sound that breaks you, and you push against him, gently, letting yourself open him slightly. He shoves his body back against you, grunting, asking for more. And you give it to him, shoving your cock into him, feeling his body's resistance at war with his own desire. After a long moment, you have opened him wide and he holds all of you.

You are both panting now, and he pushes himself back against your cock, the command clear. So you slide back, slowly, letting him feel you, and he is incoherent. The sounds he makes drive you mad, and you fuck him, pounding into him and taking all the pleasure you can from his lovely, willing body. He arches up, and you can see him pumping his own cock as it strains up into his fist. He tightens around your cock, and you fuck him harder, growling his name. He screams and his body tenses--you see hot liquid spilling over his fingers and you come, shooting yourself deep inside him. You groan into his ear, and he cries out again, his body shaking with spasms against you.

For a long moment, you stay like that, buried inside him, his body bent over and trembling. Slowly, reluctantly, you slide out of him and he turns over, lush and red and hot before you. He reaches for you, and you kiss him, gently, letting his mouth open for you and luxuriating in his tongue, his teeth.

"Spock," he whispers against your mouth. "Spock."

And this is the moment when you will wake up. You are certain of it. You wait patiently, reluctantly, your lips resting against his cheek, basking in this closeness. Any minute, the chronometer will sound and you'll be alone again, weary and stiff, your body crumpled over the console, alone.

But nothing happens. It is still you and he and the dark, and the haint is nowhere to be found. Your heart leaps, and your throat fills with fear. You are not ready for this to be real, you think, not yet, not yet. You cling to him, too hard, and he stirs against you.

"Spock?" he says again, worried now."What is it?"

With all that has happened, you think wildly, it cannot hurt to ask.

"Am I…awake?"

For a moment, he says nothing, and then he is chuckling softly, winding his hands in your hair. "I believe so, Commander," he says, pulling back to meet your eyes. "Is that a problem?"

You stare at him for a long moment, watching his eyes gleam in the dim light, and you feel your anxiety give way to something else, something lighter and more mysterious. Something utterly unknown. Interesting, you think absently, tracing his jaw with your thumb.

"No," you say carefully, trying to not to smile. "It is not."


End file.
